No Escape
by Phantom Ou
Summary: Alois Trancy's inner emotions are portrayed when he immerses himself in alcohol. One-shot.


**_No Escape_ - One-shot**

**At first, I had planned to make a lighthearted one-shot, but then I went through some depressing things, so this will be solemn and melancholy. That is why you will see that it is not relatively serious in the very beginning, but as you continue reading, it shall be. In this one-shot, I tried my best to picture myself in Alois' shoes and depict his complex emotions as well as I can. It is awesome to write about him since he is very intriguing.**

**Note: A vague connection to _The Most Beautiful Bluebell_, but it is not necessarily imperative to read it in order to follow along with this plot.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji. © 2006 The Amazing Yana Toboso. All rights reserved. **

* * *

Alcohol.

The substance, which consists of fermented liquors, is renowned for intoxication, for driving you to act like as an inebriated fool. It emanates an etherlike odor, and it possesses a pungent, biting and burning taste.

Or so Alois Trancy has heard.

Surprisingly, the Earl of Trancy has never tested the rumored-divine flavor of wine—not ever was he entailed to, and personally, there is nothing wrong with an alleviating cup of water. Though, he has been informed of the portentous alcohol's effects. Despite it inducing you to a mental torpor, it is proclaimed that it is an exhilarating liquid to down, nonetheless, for it subjects you to wondrous thrills and inexplicable 'emotions'.

Situated before him on the immaculate dining table is a bottle of wine. It is just _sitting_ there, taunting him with its sleek and rigid container and narrow neck that curves up to sustain an intricate cap. A delicate label, that he can peel at with the crook of his nail, encloses the bottle, reading: Claret Wine.

Watching from his peripheral view, Alois observes how his boisterous guests, who are invited for the sake of business negotiations (although it is unnecessary to say that the greedy imbeciles are only interested in getting acquainted with his wealth), guffaw and chug down the wine presented to them. He perceives as the lustrous red fluid glides smoothly from the polished glass and into their gaping mouths. The apples of their throats jiggle as they swallow the mysterious chemical composition.

His gaze returns to the secluded wine that is coincidentally set an outstretched arm's length away.

_Try me_, the bottle beguiles, with its enticing features. If he squints hard enough, the line where the maximum capacity and level of the wine is can be defined. And it is generously filled up, nearly reaching the cap, but not quite.

Subconsciously, his tongue flicks out to dampen his dry lips, which have been deficient of moisture when the tenacious curiosity throttles within him. His torso veers toward it until the front of his chest brushes against the edge of the table, before he can fully exercise restraint over his own actions.

Prior to this time, Alois has not conveyed much inquisition to wine. It has simply been an enigmatic beverage, is all. But having grown weary of transacting the banal preliminaries in a business deal, the sole thing that captures his attention is this obtrusive bottle. And thus commences the thinking process of what it would be like to take a sip.

Would it be detrimental? Certainly it is not fatal. The side effects cannot be too agonizing. There are no benefits or mishaps that can be extracted from this experiment. It is merely a test.

Alois angles his face slightly to the right so that perception can be extended to his monotonous butler, Claude Faustus. The mentioned servant is, at the moment, serving plates of food that release ambrosial scents, in which have the secondary effect of inducing Alois' stomach to growl.

But, the hunger will have to linger, for it is not the priority here. Now that his butler is not paying attention to him, he must seize the rare opportunity.

His hand darts outward in a flash, and wraps around the bottle. He then curls it back to him possessively, while glancing around to see if anyone has caught sight of him.

Alois is aware that he is being absurd for panicking to this extent. His fingers clasp around the exterior of the retrieved container tightly, as if fearing its escape. Apparently, even inanimate objects can incite him to paranoia. Perhaps just being around wine can drive him to the bare edge of sanity.

His thumb pries at the metallic cap with evident difficulty, his breath declining to short huffs of frustration. But soon, with one strong stroke, the unscrewed cap flips free, uncovering the contents inside.

Immediately, an intense aroma of the mulled wine wafts to his nose, tickling it with its acuteness. Pangs of anticipation inject in his veins, causing his heart to increase its pump of blood to his system.

Tilting his neck back a small degree in order to apply a sense of melodrama, he brings the tip of the bottle to his lips. After a fleeting moment of hesitation, Alois chugs the wine.

* * *

It is as if Alois was _blinded_ before. Everything bounces out at him with vibrancy and color, and he takes meticulous care to examine all of the details that his old, heedless self has failed to notice.

His environment increases drastically in sharpness, and he can perceive little things that would typically be overlooked in the face of the naked human eye: the tenuous chipped wood at the corners of the table, the inconspicuous cracks along the ceilings, and darting spiders dangling from cobwebs.

Also, it is as if the room is spinning ever so slightly. It makes it difficult for him to remain perched in his seat, and invigorated, he jumps up onto the table, surprising the guests. Then, he grins at each and every one of them, finding them so falsely friendly to have come. He might as well bring about entertainment for their sake.

Opening his mouth, he bleats out a clamorous melody, not mindful of his unstable pitch and raucous intonation.

"Olé!"

* * *

'There is something wrong with his master' would be a blatant understatement. For, there is something _seriously _erratic about him.

Normally, Claude would just dismiss this notion as one of Alois' customary idiosyncratic perks. It is not bewildering if Alois undergoes a bizarre fluctuation of moods. However, this time his master has a dazed and rather stupid, if one is to put it bluntly, look on his face, with his eyelids drooping and his lips a bit disjoined as if it is vital for him to inhale air with the mouth ajar.

What is utterly worse is that not only does Alois appear different and atypical, but he seems to have transitioned to an entirely unrecognizable person. And this new him is exceedingly _nice_. He is suddenly welcoming to his visitors, and he sings very loudly and compliments how 'purdy' they look.

Claude mutely watches as Alois energetically plops down beside a lady, who is adorned with expensive jewelry and a superfluous amount of makeup.

"You're so purdy," Alois states with a wry smile, and he runs his hand up and down her arm suggestively, leaving goosebumps at their wake.

The lady flushes while a man beside her shoots up from his seat belligerently. "Hey! That's my wife!"

"Yeah, she's so purdy."

"Are you trying to woo my wife?" he demands, with his mouth twitching into a scowl, his hand balling up into a fist by his side.

"...You're purdy, too."

The evening does not progress well, and Claude is obliged to escort the resentful guests to the front door so that their exit will quell the altercation that was pending to occur. A sigh is suppressed when he catches the view of an empty bottle of wine discarded on the floor.

He glances back at his strange master only to see him trying to balance a vase on his head. Pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly at the ludicrous scene, the butler sets out to guide him to his bedroom. Fortunately, Alois has willingly tagged along, for Claude's patience is perilously waning. No one can surmise what Claude is going to do if he grows exasperated to an unmitigated degree.

* * *

Alois is ascending the stairs with his butler, with his sight cast to the carpet ground, while exerting tremendous effort to trudge a foot on top of each step to climb. But, unmistakably, the feeling of sorrow and despair has gripped the essence of his soul.

The excitement, the prickly sensation of a buzz, has long dulled from earlier, and now fatigue afflicts him bodily as well as mentally. Racing through his head are ineradicable memories that have entrenched solidly in the back of his mind. No matter how hard he tries to root it out, they are vivid and compelling. The bitter retrospection gnaws at him in an irritatingly persistent manner, tearing at his core, and leaving him shuddering with hollowness and vulnerability.

In his hands was his little brother with pale, ghostly skin and dark, obscure eyes that reflected the emptiness of his lost soul. Alois' scream was strikingly distinct, and the ear-grating shriek still rings in his ears even now.

The harsh and strident scream had layers of overwhelming emotions saturated within it. There was undeniable sadness and grieving, with his own soul contracting and weeping. There was also desperation and potent shock, and his unwillingness to accept the fact that his brother had left him and departed from this cruel world.

But, there was fear. Fear of forever walking alone, fear of loneliness.

And, he had been lonely.

He is still lonely.

Alois was taken into the Trancy manor. He was stripped down and beaten, and presented in front of the lascivious Earl of Trancy. At first, that repulsive man vehemently rejected Alois. He deemed his eyes as 'dirty', and shoved Alois aside as if he was nothing of higher significance than garbage.

But soon, all too quickly, the man grew bored with the other boys and transferred his salacious attention to Alois. He had found him particularly appealing after the latter had embellished himself in order to be more enhancing to the eyes.

Swiftly enough, Alois became his favorite 'toy', as the Earl of Trancy had called him.

The scurrilous man would abuse him physically and deal unbearable punishments, on a daily basis to quash his boredom. He would strike him sharply with his open hand whenever Alois tries to resist, and he would commit the most heinous acts. The man would obscenely attain pleasure from the trodden body of Alois, and once done, he would again fling him aside.

The Earl of Trancy was certain to preserve him, though, and he was careful not to crush the boy so that any time he would grow bored, he can extinguish that by playing with the boy's body some more.

It had hurt greatly, excruciatingly, until every muscle in his body ached. Alois would often dig his nails into the bedsheets and bite down on his lip, drawing blood. Every portion of his body felt dirty, foul and contaminated with the man's foreign, intrusive touches. But he had given up on struggling, on striving against the rough and relentless treatment a long time ago.

For there lacked a point in _trying_. Even if he had somehow escaped from this odious fate, where was he supposed to go? Who was he supposed to turn to?

Each night whenever the Earl of Trancy had finished with his repugnant affiliation with him, Alois would lie awake in the bed, weary and enervated. The heart of his throat throbbed painfully, and the voice trapped in it would thrash and beat about, yearning to unleash a scream; a piercing scream that would illustrate all of the agony and torture that writhed within him.

He wanted to scream so badly that he could feel his entire body tremble. The fact that his mouth was obstinately clamped shut as if stitched, sickened him, and a deep sensation of nausea ruthlessly apprehended him. Occasionally, but not often, Alois could force his lips to part, and he would employ all of his strength to choke out a sound; a croak that would remind him that he was still alive. But each and every time, immutably, nothing could be put forth, and it would damage his spirits until eventually, his heart would no longer twinged in distress.

And that would scare him, that would disturb him emphatically. It frightened him that he might not ever be able to feel again. The happiness and bliss that he had shared with his brother Luka—would he forget it forever?

At times, Alois would feel more desperate than usual, and frigid iciness would wash over him, urging him to cry. But nonetheless, each and every time, not one tear could be shed. His filthy nails had even sunken against his eyelids to induce a drop at least, but it was as if he had shriveled to an irreparable extent.

The burden of solitude he had carried around for dreary and gloomy years became something customary to him. Was he really that free and innocent Jim Macken from back then? That name, that identity, appeared chimerical, like a fictitious character from a children's book, spun and woven by a deluded author that had immersed himself in optimism.

It was hard to believe that Jim Macken existed.

Perhaps he did not, and Alois never had a past, his present was trash, and his future... well, there was none. The final spark of light was the remembrance of Luka, and even that was blurry and indistinct; a dream, he should say. A marvelous dream that was placed among the many nightmares that persecuted him. Luka's cheerful smile, his warm feel, they were all fuzzy and they no longer infuse hope.

It is lonely here in the depths of his suffering soul. He is all alone. There exists not one person that loves him, that cares for him.

If love impels you to keep living, then what if you do not have any? What if no one has ever bestowed love to you?

Should he die? Would it even matter to anyone if he dies?

"Claude."

His butler pauses in his advance, and turns to face him. Internally, Alois braces for the acute magnitude in his golden eyes. His face is void of any expression, but Claude's eyes—they are always so keen and penetrating as if they can read Alois like an open book. For that, Alois has depended and relied on him for emotional support, thinking that Claude can understand him the best.

And yet, there lies a subtle blaze in the gold, something that instigates that Claude's passion is directed toward Alois' soul. The demon is hungry and famished, as if he is barely desisting from consuming the lofty soul that is rich in substance.

His blasted soul is the sole reason that Claude persists being by his side. If it was gone, would Claude dispose of his lifeless corpse straight away?

Alois constrains himself to shift his vision to his bedroom door. "...You may take a break tonight. All I want to do is retire to my bed."

It is a brazenly overt lie. All he desires for is to be held, to be caressed, to be told for one damn time that someone loves him. The despair is flourishing, and it is pervasive, spreading to each limb of his body until he is numb, raw and needy. No matter how much he swallows down the perturbation, it would, without exception, return. Alienation is perpetual and everlasting, even after fourteen bloody years in this damned planet.

"If you insist, I shall do as commanded," Claude replies, and without sparing another blink, he vanishes completely from view. The contract that binds them sends vibrations crawling down Alois' spine as it usually does whenever Claude fixes a distance between them.

And he feels more alone than ever.

The alcohol from earlier incites tipsiness, and Alois unsteadily sulks toward his bedroom, his palm running against the wall to help him balance. The exercise appears simple and blithe, but strangely, it is a strenuous workout just to situate his vision and function his movements properly. As he does so, he encounters the demon triplets, in which each of them possesses the similar plum hair and scarlet eyes. It is nearly impossible for Alois to discern which one is Timber, which one is Thompson, and which one is Canterbury—not that he had ever cared to a sufficient level to try to remember their appellations.

At the sight of their master, they straighten and whisper among themselves about his debilitated condition. Alois is about to order them to go off somewhere else, but is unable to aggregate enough force. Seeing them continue to mumble to one another incoherently ignites a curiosity in Alois. They are brothers, and they share everything to each other. That seems pleasant, to say at the very least, but what are they talking about?

"You three may speak up."

The triplets glance at one another questionably as if to verify if Alois has granted them permission. After a few exchanges, a slight nod is performed by each of them, and they look back at their master.

"Is Master drunk?"

"I think he is."

"Intoxicated, that's bad."

"It's not healthy."

"Nope, alcohol is not."

"Befuddling, that's what it is."

"It sure is."

"Yep."

"Definitely."

Caught off guard by the sudden and astounding display of verbosity, the blond can only manage a dumbfounded gawk.

"I told you alcohol is bad. Look at Master, he seems dazed."

"Is he going to faint?"

"I hope he won't faint."

"Then that means we'll have to carry him inside his room."

"What if Master is heavy?"

"He seems kind of small, though."

"Small and dainty."

"Superb!"

"So, will he faint?"

"I don't know; he hasn't moved in a while."

"As if he has seen a ghost."

"There's a ghost?"

"Possibly. I dislike ghosts."

"Me too."

"Me three."

Confounded by their unexpected loquaciousness, Alois merely brushes past them, pushing himself against the door to propel its opening. However, even though he has stumbled inside, their meaningless chattering is still ongoing and persevering.

"Master, going to sleep?"

"That's self-explanatory; he went in his room."

"Well, we can't really know for sure until we ask."

"It's best to ask."

"You're right. It's always best to affirm things beforehand."

"It's the best method, ever."

"Like, ever."

"Certainly."

"Positively."

Hastily, Alois slams the door shut, and at long last, their voices diminish into a low babble—but as long as they are unintelligible, he is content. Alois then heads to his bed, only to draw back in surprise when he sees that Hannah, his maid, is in the midst of preparing his bed by fluffing his pillows and smoothing out the wrinkles in his blanket.

When the door has closed so violently, Hannah has flinched and gazed up to perceive her master. It is an arduous undertaking to decipher his expression, and even then, it remains difficult to presume what his next action would be. At the moment, her master seems startled, with his mouth ajar. According to her previous experiences, following suit after shock would be rage.

"I-I apologize, Master," Hannah says quickly. "I was just tidying up your bed for slumber."

That blasted alcohol is having a queer effect on him. He feels exceptionally woozy, but cannot abstain from studying his maid. Normally, he would denounce her as a slut and a whore, for no doubt she must have slept with a lot of lustful guys.

But then, who can blame them? Admittedly, Hannah is... tolerant to look at. She possesses quite an endowed figure, with the right curves in the ideal places, and the tight outfit upon her defines them imposingly. The voluptuous sight of her is utterly riveting, and—sadly, but it is happening all the same—blood rushes to his nether regions. Why has he not noticed how enthralling she is before? Particularly when she inclines ever so slightly, allowing perception to befall upon—

Rapidly, Alois looks away from her, grinding his teeth together in resentment. What in the bloody hell is with these lewd thoughts? And they are directed to, ew, Hannah! How disgusting; he has to choke down a gag. It is all the wine's fault, and it has absolutely _nothing_ to do with his own judgment.

Diffidently, Hannah breaks the silence—a notion that she dislikes doing for that would mean that more attention would be diverted to her—with a quiet announcement, "I shall leave—"

"No!"

The maid is startled and astonished, and remains still at the terse but clear denial.

Her master scowls at her before proceeding to his bed. He climbs on it, and then hesitantly, he pats against the spot beside him with the flat surface of his palm.

"Why don't we make this evening more enjoyable, Hannah? I'm sure that a tramp like you has given many guys erections before, so the least you can do is try to cheer me up."

Despite the stern content of his words, there is an undeniable note of sadness in his tone. Hannah inspects him inquisitively only to acknowledge a hint of desperation flickering across his turquoise eyes before it is succeeded by apathy.

Tentatively, she walks to his bedside and sits in an awkward manner, making certain to not be or act too comfortable. They sit, with a tangible distance separating them both, and the silence that materializes last for a duration of an hour. Eventually, though, her master languidly sinks from his position, his neck tilting to the side stiffly, and his lashes flutter close.

Hannah finds herself smiling at the sight. Whenever Alois Trancy sleeps, there radiates an angelic aura from him. His face is not contorted into a grotesque sneer or scowl, and it holds a childlike innocence instead. The flawless porcelain complexion, the fair hair with windswept bangs, and the beautiful sky-blue eyes safely tucked beneath the eyelids all combine to give him a unique and breathtaking look.

He appears so delicate and fragile, putting forth the necessity that he must be handled with utmost gentleness. Although she is cognizant of her position as a meager maid, she omits this for now, and carefully, Hannah takes him and lays him against her chest so that he may be cushioned to apply more ease for his neck.

She cradles him fondly like a mother would with her child, and her hand amicably ruffles the soft, blond hair. It trails down to his cheek where she caresses it, but then she notices a pair of cerulean eyes gazing at her.

"What are you doing?"

"I—"

Hastily, Alois shoves her down from his bed, allowing for her rough collide to the ground. It is inexplicable, much too complex to explain, but his body is trembling at this point. Fervor injects oozes of steaming heat to overwhelm his frame, to fuel it with a burning sensation.

"Get... out..."

"M-Master..."

Is this not the warmth he wanted? The care, the comfort? And yet, why does he reject it?

No, he has to refuse this. Frankly, this is not right. This is very much wrong coming from his maid. Who is she besides a feckless and futile servant? He can never understand her thoughts, feelings or emotions. Her entire existence is composed of many interrelated facets; she is utterly impervious. It imparts a searing headache to make much sense out of it.

Speaking of which, why is she so willing to be in his service? He beats, abuses, and belittles her to an insufferable extent to release all of the anger inside him. He has held an extreme aversion for himself for being so weak and submissive to that revolting man's whims. That is why he feels an insatiable need to scourge this woman, who is so disturbing similar to his old self; vulnerable as if irreparably crippled from inside out.

However, there is one thing that sorts her into a different category from him: she is not sad. In fact, Hannah seems to allow this mistreatment wholeheartedly, without the slightest of resistance ever.

That brings him back to that one day when she has first appeared in his life. In the absence of any warning, she manifested before him and Claude. She presented herself and implored to be his servant. At that point, Alois merely conjectured that she was in a desperate need for somewhere to reside in. But, she followed through with everything he ordered her to do. Not to mention how she is a demon. She can run away at anytime that she wishes to even, and yet she remains by his side as if glued.

Alois grits his teeth rancorously at these pestering thoughts. The only reason why she submits herself under his oppressive rule is because she is incorrigibly frail and cowardly.

And yet, he is riddled with anxiety when the memory floods back to him when she has done everything in her power to protect his bluebells—those precious flowers are the final reminder of Luka.

It is as if she _knows_ Luka.

And then, it hits him strongly as to why he has been feeling so weird and disoriented around her presence, and he nearly splutters out a plaintive breath of air.

That day when he has presented her the bluebell, she has smiled.

That smile. It is exactly like Luka's: benign, loving, warmly affectionate.

What has he ever did do deserve her kindness?

Hannah steps over to him worriedly when he has curled up in his bed and writhed as if suffering from turmoil. "A-are you all right, M—"

"I don't fucking understand!" Alois brusquely screams, and the despair in his eyes is unveiled, as he throws a pillow at her. He pulls his knees close to his chest, much like a petrified child trying to defend himself from the harsh outside forces. "Why... Why is it you? You out of all people? No one... is there to love me."

_I love you, Jim_, are the words that have embedded deeply in her heart and engraved into her very soul. But, they are unspoken, as her throat has dried at this pitiful sight. She tries, to her best potential, each day to crystallize these earnest words into a tangible existence and allow them to project to him. But, his back is always turned against her.

Alois seems to have acknowledge her presence once again, and his features contort into an irate scowl. "Get out!"

The maid flinches, mumbles an apology, and after a deferential bow, she disappears from the room. There is a part of him that censures this dismissal of her. His fists grasp onto his bedsheets, his knuckles whitening at the sheer compression. For a fleeting moment, he is about to call her damned name, but in his hunched position, his gaze falls upon a cage set on his bedside table.

Inside it is a beautiful butterfly.

He has nearly forgotten about his pet that he has deftly caught himself while strolling around the garden a few days ago. Eagerly clambering down from his bed, albeit how the rashness of this action causes the room to whirl, he tugs open the lock. It is a lock that he has ordered to be installed. He does not want this butterfly to escape. It is his, and his only. It cannot escape, and thus, it cannot leave his side. Not ever, until he allows it to.

His palm reaches out ever so slowly, and the fascinating creature flits into it easily. It does not attempt to escape in the caress of his warm skin, as though it is attached to him. Mesmerized, Alois studies the iridescent colors that have impressed themselves along the wings.

It is so magnificent that ripping his eyes from it would be strenuous to achieve. He loves it. He unequivocally loves it with every single fiber of his being. There exists a potent connection between them, no matter how preposterous that may sound.

The butterfly must be lonely as well, in that cage. Perhaps that is why it skitters around his palm, as though exhilarated by freedom.

But then, in front of him there is a transparent, single strand of web. Gradually, a spider tainted with black drops from the slender thread with amazing adroitness. As it glides in a stealthy and sly manner, Alois gapes at this new company, feeling a certain pull as if the spider is inveigling him to do something that he is sure he will regret.

A sudden fluttering in his palm tugs his attention back to his butterfly. Its wings are spread and flapping, and it dawns to him that it is about to take flight—it is about to_ leave_ him.

He is going to be alone again.

Before he fully realizes it, the spider plops down on his knee, and that is when he grips onto a wing of the butterfly. It oscillates frantically at the impeding fingers, and it struggles with vehemence to fly free.

Unemotionally, menacingly, Alois plucks the wing from its vessel, allowing for the strange powdery substance of its wing to stain his hand. With the one wing that it has left, the butterfly contends by violently tossing about in his palm at the abrupt danger that has transpired. A lump forms in the heart of his throat as he gazes at the agonizing visage of this once beautiful creature's efforts to grasp for freedom, despite the odds.

He is right to say that this butterfly is very much similar to him.

Pressing his eyes shut, he squeezes his hand into an inexorable close, putting the butterfly out of its misery. When he unfurls his fingers, there lies the crumpled carcass of the creature.

It is dead.

Suddenly, a low moan erupts from him, and his shoulders quiver. He begins to weep. He begins to cry for the friend that he has killed, an icy sensation weaving its way to his heart to clasp it.

He wants it to end. The pain in his heart. The loneliness that plagues him wherever he goes.

That night, Alois has a dream. In his dream, there is a butterfly, brimming with happiness at the period of felicity. But then, it is ensnared in an adhesive spider web that is viscous and indestructible. Its wings, which have once fluttered with color and resplendence, are entangled by its sides; slowly decaying, rotting. The spider opens its hungry mouth to feast upon the tragic soul of this defenseless butterfly, who is forever trapped and imprisoned until its forthcoming demise.

While the cold perspiration dampens his forehead, and while he is releasing a bloodcurdling shriek that expresses all the anguish he is drowning in, he finally realizes that the butterfly is none other than himself.


End file.
